The Trance
by Queenofthemorgue
Summary: How he did it, she did not know. When Meg found herself down on one knee. One hand clutching her shawl, her other clutching the upright piano to her right. Meg does her very best to recover from the trance.


Every part of her body felt ten times heavier than normal. Lead eyelids kept her from thinking clearly. All of her energy was spent on keeping awake. Her mind was clouded with a fog, and loud operatic voices. Once the fog cleared. Meg was finally able to open her eyes. The voices range in her ears as she saw the seats of the chairs that were lined up in rows at eye level. A flash of navy blue went from her view in a hurry. A streak of familiar red passed through at the same pace. Christine.

"Poor young maiden." echoed over and over in her mind. The voices were accompanied by that sinister, rapid piano playing. The chairs were blurry still. Meg continued to blink to focus her eyes. The voices started over again, including her own. Singing the same sinister words. "Tangled in the winding sheets."

Meg moved her eyes with the flash over and over until it disappeared behind the piano and the singers standing entranced behind it. When she saw her own blurry hand resting on the upright piano to her right did Meg truly realized that she was posed down on one knee. Meg noticed the feeling of her shawl as her other hand grasped at the soft fabric.

Madame Giry's cane smacked on the ground. Everyone entranced, including Meg, jumped at the sound. Sending Meg's body trembling in fear. She did not remember walking to the piano. Let alone kneeling and singing an unknown threat to Christine. Her best friend. The flash of navy and red. It was all too much.

Those entranced already dispersed from their orderly rows behind the piano. All chattering and hysterical over the what just happened. Meg rose from the stage. Her limbs still felt weighted. Feeling… violated. Manipulated in the most unexplainable way. Her cheeks reddened as she stood looking for direction from Monsieur Reyes or her mother.

Reyes stammered, frightened of what just occurred. Madame Giry was all control as she told the performers the rehearsal was over. Thankfully the day was close to ending by then. Christine arrived just a few minutes before this event, but she was terribly late. Cloak in hand. Reluctance abounding. Meg held her hand as Carlotta went on and on in her usual fashion. All a charade to conceal her fear of the… composer. Meg felt terrible for leaving her side to add to the awful display. No doubt the composer's fault.

The Opera Ghost, Composer, The man who lives deep in the depths of the opera. Phantom. Erik. It felt almost sinister for Meg to know his name. Madame Giry had let it slip after he took Christine to his home. She remembered the moment as if the room materialized around her that very moment. Like she could smell the incense her mother loved so very much. The scent was true and just over her shoulder.

"Meg?" Her stare grew more worrisome by the moment. Meg couldn't help but jump when her mother said her name. She tried to speak but Madame Giry hushed her. "It's alright, my chere." Meg turned to her mother and grasped her tall form in a hug.

Not a usual occurrence for the pair. Meg followed her mother around often. Learning and helping as needed. But they hardly ever hugged. If they did it was usually to give thanks for a gift. Even then, it didn't compare to the way Meg grasped onto her for comfort. The trance was bone-chilling. Setting a tone for the worst to come. Madame Giry's tall height shielded Meg from what she knew to be there.

His eyes. Meg could feel them the moment she entered the wings to rehearse. She'd learned to detect them early. Always being watched. Always coming from that box. Well, almost always. That night of that dreadful performance of Il Muto. It was certainly there. Alive and furious. Madame Giry pushed Meg from her body with loving hands.  
"Rest now." She sent her daughter away. Erik had never tried to do anything like that to Madame Giry. He wouldn't have been around the opera if he had. But Madame Giry knew that it must have been terrible. Everyone involved would blame the opera ghost. If only they truly knew. That was what shook Meg to her very core. Meg nodded her head and kissed her mother's cheek before making her way to the little dressing room down the hall from the Prima Donna's.

A privilege of rank and years of living in the opera granted her the room. It was big enough to be a room to live in. A dressing table and screen on one side. Shelves, a wardrobe, and a day bed that would be made up pretty for visitors to sit when they came. Though it was mostly used for resting before, during, and after shows. Meg longed to collapse in it as she walked slowly and like a walking corpse down that long quite hall.

A match for his walking corpse. She thought. The hall was not usually quiet at this time of day, but the events on that stage struck them in the worst of ways. Meg leaned against the door once she was inside. She wished with all of her might that she could as though she was safe in that room. She wouldn't feel safe anywhere in that opera house. Not for a while.

Meg rushed to take off her rehearsal gown. She did not have the will to change the chemise to the nightgown she kept in the dressing room. The shock began to finally set in as her trembling hands made slow work of removing the outer layers of her ensemble. Once she was able she tore some of the decorative pillows from the bed and pulled at the blankets to finally climb in. Without the grace of a dancer, she settled into the bed.

Grabbing the nearest pillow, Meg's body began to sob. She sobbed until her body gave in to her exhaustion When Meg awoke, she laid on her back for what felt like hours, yet only minutes at the same time. Once she felt able, Meg got up from the bed. It was as if what he did took the very life from her. In that hall with no windows, there was no telling the time. Thankfully Meg kept a clock on her dressing table. It was two in the morning.

A ballet rat should be in bed. The curfew said so. As an advanced member of the corps, she wouldn't be in very much trouble. But as Madame Giry's daughter, she could be scolded on any other night. This night would be an exception. Meg was putting on her dressing gown before she truly realized it.

The gown was grander than one would expect for a mere Sujet. Meg had a pension for taking retired costumes and turning them into something grand and perfect for herself. She caught herself in the mirror on the back wall as she tied the tie of the dressing gown around her waist. Her image matched her feeling.

Her hair lost its ribbon in her sleep. The blonde waves and curls were fluffy from tossing. Her skin, paler than normal. Fitting for one who didn't leave the opera very much. When she did she was dressed up as any woman of the age would. Long sleeves, tall necks, gloves, hats, and parasol protected the skin that rarely baked in the sun.  
She did love the sun. Without its sting.

Meg couldn't bear to be in that room anymore. She would not sleep. Even if she could in any other room. The time spent lying on the bed after waking up was more than enough. She pulled her trapped hair from the dressing gown and threw it over the pink shoulders. When she was sure the tie was secure, Meg made to leave the room for… somewhere. Anywhere but there. In her mood, she would have forgotten to wear shoes if it wasn't for the cold stone of the hallway.

With a sigh she put on the slippers she kept for this very purpose of walking around the opera in her free time. Meg Giry had walked these halls over well over ten years. This time, however, was different. If there was not an event in the opera, these halls would always be silent at this time of night. Meg felt both highly aware and ignorant of her surrounds at the same time.

She was far too wary of each shadow but tripped over a box new props for Don Juan Triumphant in the wings. To stay undisturbed, she kept her pain silent. Once she could, Meg continued on her way. Thankfully there were always lamps kept dim along the way. The stage and auditorium were kept dark. Meg knew exactly where they kept the matches to the light the pole that lit the floor lights. She took a couple and went to the floor lights. She lit the one in the middle straight from the match.

As the fire started Meg heard the sound of a door opening. Out of instinct Megs head snapped up to box five. She hoped to see nothing but a black box. The opposite was found. She could see a sliver of very dim light the hall. The door was cracked. As if the opener froze in their tracks. Meg did the same from her spot on the stage.

With all of the grace she could muster, Meg stood without a sound. Trying to see into the box for the identity of the door opener. She knew. Oh, how she knew. But there was still hope that the opener could be her mother. Or a brand new group of young ballet rats daring each other to go into the ghost's box in the dead of night.

"I don't know how you did it," Meg spoke out to the Phantom. "In fact, I don't care how you did it. But it was cruel." The door shut as she left out her desperate last word. Sending the box into darkness. Cutting her off before she could say something worth being hurt over. Or worse, done with, like Buquet.

Meg was still recovering from the events of that afternoon. This combined with her fear made her head pound. She stood Feeling tired again, Meg went to put out the light in the middle with the intention of swiftly going back to her dressing room.

When she stood back up, Meg felt that the air was different. She sensed the eyes she knew so well in the most alarming of places. Right behind her head.


End file.
